clouded for a second. She reached firmly for her beer, drank a gulp and said, ‘Take a look for yourself.’
Rob checked the early pages. ‘Seems OK to me.’
‘Here,’ she said, pointing. ‘Yes, it begins very neatly. Diagrams of the excavations. Microliths noted. But here… look …’
Rob flicked some more pages until she stopped him.
‘See, from here it falls apart. The handwriting turns into a scrawl. And the drawings and little doodles…chaotic. And here. What are all these numbers?’
Rob looked closely. The writing was nearly all in German. The handwriting at first was very neat; but it did get scrawlier to the end. There was a list of numbers on the last page. Then a line about someone called Orra Keller. Rob remembered a girl he’d known in England called Orra. A Jewish girl. So who was this Orra Keller?He asked Christine; and she shrugged. He asked her about the numbers. She shrugged again-more emphatically. Rob noted there was also a drawing in the book: a scribbled sketch of a field, and some trees.
He handed the book back to Christine. ‘What does the writing say? I don’t know much German.’
‘Well, most of it is illegible.’ She opened the book towards the end. ‘But he talks about wheat, here. And a river. Turning into more rivers. Here.’
‘Wheat? But why?’
‘God knows. And this drawing seems to be a map. I think. With mountains. It says mountains with a question mark. And rivers. Or maybe they are roads. It really is a mess.’
Rob finished his beer and motioned to the bar owner for two more. Another huge silver lorry thundered down the Damascus road. The sky over Sanliurfa was a dirty orange-black.
‘And what about the grass?’
Christine nodded. ‘Yes, that is weird. Why keep that?’
‘Do you think he was frightened? Is that why the notes are so…messed up?
‘It is possible. Remember the Pulsa Dinura?’
Rob shuddered. ‘Hard to forget. Do you think he knew about that?’
Christine picked an insect off the top of her beer. Then she looked hard at Rob. ‘I think he knew. He must have heard the chanters outside the window. And he was an expert onMesopotamian religions. The demons and the curses. It was one of his specialities.’
‘So he was aware he was in danger?’
‘Probably. Which might account for the chaotic state of his notes. Sheer fear. But still…’ She held the book flat in her hands, as if assessing its weight. ’A lifetime’s work…
Rob could sense her sadness.
Christine dropped the book again. ‘This place is horrible. I don’t care if they do serve beer. Can we go?’
‘Gladly.’
Dropping some coins in a saucer, they made for the Land Rover and barrelled off down the road. After a while Christine said, ‘I don’t believe it was just fear, it doesn’t add up.’ She swivelled the wheel so they could overtake a cyclist, an old man in an Arabic cloak. Sitting in front of the bicycling man, athwart the crossbar, was a small dark boy. The boy waved at the Land Rover, grinning at the white western woman.
Rob noticed that Christine was taking side streets. Not an obvious route back to the centre of town.
At last she said, ‘Franz was diligent and thorough. I don’t think a curse would have sent him over the edge. Nothing would have unsettled him like that.’
‘So what was it?’ Rob asked.
They were in a newer part of town now. Almost European looking. Nice clean apartment blocks.Women were walking the evening streets, not all of them in headscarves. Rob saw a brightly lit supermarket advertising cheese in German as well as Turkish. Next door was an internet café full of shining screens with dark heads silhouetted against them.
‘I think he must have had some theory. He used to get excited by theories.’
‘I saw.’
Christine smiled, staring ahead. ‘I think he had some theory, about Gobekli. That’s what the notes say to me.’
‘A theory to do with what?’
‘Perhaps he had worked out why Gobekli was buried. That
Rob checked the early pages. ‘Seems OK to me.’
‘Here,’ she said, pointing. ‘Yes, it begins very neatly. Diagrams of the excavations. Microliths noted. But here… look …’
Rob flicked some more pages until she stopped him.
‘See, from here it falls apart. The handwriting turns into a scrawl. And the drawings and little doodles…chaotic. And here. What are all these numbers?’
Rob looked closely. The writing was nearly all in German. The handwriting at first was very neat; but it did get scrawlier to the end. There was a list of numbers on the last page. Then a line about someone called Orra Keller. Rob remembered a girl he’d known in England called Orra. A Jewish girl. So who was this Orra Keller?He asked Christine; and she shrugged. He asked her about the numbers. She shrugged again-more emphatically. Rob noted there was also a drawing in the book: a scribbled sketch of a field, and some trees.
He handed the book back to Christine. ‘What does the writing say? I don’t know much German.’
‘Well, most of it is illegible.’ She opened the book towards the end. ‘But he talks about wheat, here. And a river. Turning into more rivers. Here.’
‘Wheat? But why?’
‘God knows. And this drawing seems to be a map. I think. With mountains. It says mountains with a question mark. And rivers. Or maybe they are roads. It really is a mess.’
Rob finished his beer and motioned to the bar owner for two more. Another huge silver lorry thundered down the Damascus road. The sky over Sanliurfa was a dirty orange-black.
‘And what about the grass?’
Christine nodded. ‘Yes, that is weird. Why keep that?’
‘Do you think he was frightened? Is that why the notes are so…messed up?
‘It is possible. Remember the Pulsa Dinura?’
Rob shuddered. ‘Hard to forget. Do you think he knew about that?’
Christine picked an insect off the top of her beer. Then she looked hard at Rob. ‘I think he knew. He must have heard the chanters outside the window. And he was an expert onMesopotamian religions. The demons and the curses. It was one of his specialities.’
‘So he was aware he was in danger?’
‘Probably. Which might account for the chaotic state of his notes. Sheer fear. But still…’ She held the book flat in her hands, as if assessing its weight. ’A lifetime’s work…
Rob could sense her sadness.
Christine dropped the book again. ‘This place is horrible. I don’t care if they do serve beer. Can we go?’
‘Gladly.’
Dropping some coins in a saucer, they made for the Land Rover and barrelled off down the road. After a while Christine said, ‘I don’t believe it was just fear, it doesn’t add up.’ She swivelled the wheel so they could overtake a cyclist, an old man in an Arabic cloak. Sitting in front of the bicycling man, athwart the crossbar, was a small dark boy. The boy waved at the Land Rover, grinning at the white western woman.
Rob noticed that Christine was taking side streets. Not an obvious route back to the centre of town.
At last she said, ‘Franz was diligent and thorough. I don’t think a curse would have sent him over the edge. Nothing would have unsettled him like that.’
‘So what was it?’ Rob asked.
They were in a newer part of town now. Almost European looking. Nice clean apartment blocks.Women were walking the evening streets, not all of them in headscarves. Rob saw a brightly lit supermarket advertising cheese in German as well as Turkish. Next door was an internet café full of shining screens with dark heads silhouetted against them.
‘I think he must have had some theory. He used to get excited by theories.’
‘I saw.’
Christine smiled, staring ahead. ‘I think he had some theory, about Gobekli. That’s what the notes say to me.’
‘A theory to do with what?’
‘Perhaps he had worked out why Gobekli was buried. That
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